


Rock, Paper (No Scissors)

by zelempa



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: 20 Questions, Correspondence, M/M, Prison, Slavery, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-17
Updated: 2007-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-05 12:41:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zelempa/pseuds/zelempa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"First of all--as impressed as I am by the nonchalance with which you can just decide to risk life and limb, 'Oh, I think I'll escape from the prison camp today,' the way most people say 'I think I'll wear the blue tie'--as impressive as that admittedly is!--you do realize, don't you, that by writing to me about your daring escape plans, you're putting me in the delicate position of having to literally eat your words?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rock, Paper (No Scissors)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for McShep Match 2007. This is an offering for Team Angst with the prompt "Correspondence." Thanks to Gothphyle for the title. Thanks to Team Angst for beta. Especial thanks to the always amazing Yolsaffbridge for the world's most helpful and enthusiastic beta on a prior (worse) version of this story.

> TESTING   
> SHEPPARD   
> Are you there?

John blinked at the scrap of paper. It was smudged with dirt from rolling into the cell at absurd speeds, pushed round the edge of the wall by a rare flash of pale scientist hand. The weight had come from a little cylindrical bottle of ink, around which Rodney had carefully fixed the note using a complicated series of tears and folds. John had to admit it was silly to be sitting not ten feet from each other (more like ten inches, if he and Rodney were both to sit against the separating wall, which thought really shouldn't be exciting, but there you were) and not communicating, but they couldn't project their voices enough to reach clearly around the wall without attracting the attention of all the surrounding prisoners and some frankly fairly diligent guards. Still, there some something distinctly silly about passing notes. John broke a twig into the ink bottle, stuck his tongue in the corner of his mouth, and carefully penned on the back of McKay's note,

> Do you like me? Check one.   
> __ Prison sucks   
> __ My hand hurts  
> Your best friend forever,   
> John

He wrote the second option mostly because his own hand hurt from gripping the handle of a rough-hewn shovel all day, but he figured Rodney would also be primed to complain about his exciting day of copying out the ancient religious texts or whatever they were having him do. Captain Tev, the almost-reasonable guard, had explained it all out to John while they had him chained up in the storeroom, going through his pack, hacking off his tac vest at the shoulders with a knife, and otherwise robbing him of anything that might be useful in this situation. "It is a simple job. Highly coveted. You see, I like you, 51."

"Oh, you can call me Colonel Sheppard." John flashed a quick smile without breaking his squinting glare. "What about Dr. McKay?"

"52? He will be sent to the swamps with the others. I think you have made a poor choice of friends, Colonel. He is weak and slow, and will soon break from want of breath. Tell me, is it a custom on your world to show insolence to your captors?"

"He's Canadian," John apologized, which sounded at first like some sort of political statement, but was, he realized, totally meaningless.

Captain Tev was also confused. He tried to interpret, "He is a stupid man."

"No, no, you've got it all wrong. He's really smart. Smart and careful. Real clever hands. You want stuff written out, go to him. Me, I suck at that stuff." Captain Tev eyed John, and he added helpfully, "Fs in penmanship, across the board."

"52..." Tev knit his brow as if trying to understand. "He is your superior?"

"Uhhh. Well. I wouldn't go that far. We're kind of equals."

"You are trying to protect him."

"Is it working?"

"I would not bother if I were you. He will quickly sicken and die."

"I'll take my chances."

"I like you, 51," Tev repeated. "I am willing to grant your request. You will quickly come to regret it."

John didn't regret it yet--not even as he lowered his aching bones to the floor after a harder day's work than he'd done since, well, ever, maybe. He was getting too old for enforced labor camps, he decided. Most of the prisoners around him were of the strapping young variety, probably because most men didn't make it past forty in this backwoods society. He'd been the one to lag behind and take the guard's switch across the back more than once. Digging trenches was hard enough work in solid ground; you'd think it would be easier in mud, but they kept filling themselves in. It was kind of like being Sisyphus, if instead of going up a hill, you were standing knee-deep in swamp mud with your arms and legs in chains and a cloud of insects swarming around your head. (John hated bugs.)

But he was feeling pretty philosophical about the whole thing, at the moment. Now that they were communicating they could figure out their escape plan, and even if it took awhile--John had a feeling Rodney was going to council the "slow and steady" route, after they'd both seen an escapee being led back to a cell with raw hamburger where his back used to be--well, things could be worse. Rodney was safe in his room, set up with his cushy job, and for his own part, John could take whatever these clowns dished out.

The next time the guard on duty looked away, the note-wrapped rock sailed directly into John's shin. Rodney seemed to have checked both boxes, but it was hard to tell from the tiny print which crossed the paper on top of everything else.

> It's very well for you to complain, Colonel, you haven't been holding a pen made of TREE BARK since the DAWN OF TIME. You got a nice sleep in, I know, because I'd been up copying War and Peace length books (you know how long War and Peace is, right? just take the part you read, and multiply it by 1000). Do you know how annoying it is to have a splinter in that little area between thumb and rest of hand? Brain melting out ears from mindless work. Religious texts incomprehensible yet strangely vapid. Cannot possibly work as quickly as they expect without serious risk of carpal tunnel, death. Nobody to talk to to keep brain alive except guards, who, strangely unresponsive. It's like being alone only without the advantage, which I really took for granted in my life up till now, of nobody watching you pee. Also am cold, dirty, hungry, and   
> (over)

The back was covered in the same cramped scrawl. It looked like more of same, a laundry list of complaints. Geez. John took his pen-thing and very carefully initialed in the one tiny blankish corner he could find,

> tl;dr

Rodney had only himself to blame for teaching John the abbreviation for "too long; didn't read," which constituted most of Rodney's responses to his email. Understandably, his reply was swift and just.

> Jackass.
> 
> Short enough for you?

And because he couldn't resist, John tore the paper in half and responded simply,

> Yes.

While Rodney was no doubt dreaming up a suitably withering response to that, John took the remaining half and wrote,

> Hey, seriously, Rodney, are they treating you ok? If you're hungry I have more food than I need.  
> JS

He knocked on the wall to let Rodney know it was coming. When the guard turned to yell at a prisoner who was ranting about demons, he handed it around the corner. Rodney's fingers touched his as he took the note.

When the guard returned to give demon guy his second warning John automatically reached out his hand. Sure enough Rodney was ready with a reply.

> See, this is why nobody can stand to be around y--oh. Hi. Yes. I'm all set to catalogue your faults and you go and turn nice on me. I think you did it just to spite me. Also: like I believe you. You've got a spare cornucopia or two just lying around. You don't need to starve yourself on my behalf, Colonel, the portion size was really not my primary problem with the dirt-battered forest pigeon or whatever it was. At least they've apparently never heard of citrus on this planet, although I doubt prisoners ever really rate zesty seasonings.

 

> That's the spirit. Count your blessings.
> 
> In that case, probably easiest for me to escape alone, steal back handheld, find that place with less interference to radio for reinforcements. Then come back for you.
> 
> JS

 

> First of all--as impressed as I am by the nonchalance with which you can just decide to risk life and limb, "Oh, I think I'll escape from the prison camp today," the way most people say "I think I'll wear the blue tie"--as impressive as that admittedly is!--you do realize, don't you, that by writing to me about your daring escape plans, you're putting me in the delicate position of having to literally eat your words? You could have at least written in code. A cryptogram, for god's sake. Second--no, no, absolutely not, vetoing that plan right now.

 

> Don't see what you're complaining about. Paper's probably better than that bird.  
> I'm not going to abandon you, Rodney. I promise I'll come back. Do you want me to pinky swear, cause I'll do it. You can come along if you really want to, but it'd be trickier to work, and I don't know if it's really your kind of mission. Might get messy.
> 
> John

 

> No, I don't want to go with you! I don't want you to go with you! Of course it might get messy. It might get 400 LASHES messy. And PROMPTLY DIE OF INFECTION messy. And by might I mean will. Plus, it's totally pointless, except as an exercise in daredevilry, and God knows you don't need any more of those. Home will send reinforcements after us whether you get yourself lost in the uninhabitable forest on your way to look for a completely unmarked clearing that may or may not let you use the comm they may or may not have destroyed by now.
> 
> You are right. The paper is delicious between-meals snack. You're lucky I'm here. If it were up to you you'd be leaving all kinds of notes everywhere that might as well say HEY GUARDS, I AM PLANNING A DARING ESCAPE! PLEASE PLACE ME IN SOLITARY CONFINEMENT. ALSO DO NOT FORGET TO BEAT ME WITH STICKS.

Got that one covered, John thought, but he didn't want to open it up for discussion. And McKay's cost/benefit analysis was probably right, damn him. So John just wrote

> Goodnight, McKay.

He should have known Rodney wouldn't let him have the last word. A minute later:

> Goodnight, John-boy.

When he'd woken up that morning on the stone floor to the sound of the guards' chains, John wouldn't have predicted that he'd go to sleep grinning.

*

The thing was, it was kind of a waste not to escape, thought John, as he lay in his cell the next dawn, sleepily watching the guards rouse the prisoner across the hall. Each morning two guards went into each cell and pulled the inmate out into the corridor, where a third key-bearing guard locked him onto a set of chained-together arm- and leg-cuffs. It was during this morningly operation that you would want to go into action, if that's what you were going to do. (If John had been running things, he would have just left the prisoners in chains all the time and only joined them together when they were working, but he thought it best not to make such a suggestion to Captain Tev, particularly as he had no desire for clanking chains to interfere with his note-writing.)

But Rodney was probably right, anyway. It would be easy enough to get off the compound, but what then, smart guy? Even once you made it through the depressing fields of swamp immediately surrounding the prison, you had to tramp through a dark and unnavigable forest, thick with mist and radio interference, with cover so complete and ground so mud-soft you'd never hear your pursuers until they were upon you.

So he'd stay. Knowing he could escape at any moment gave him kind of a detached amusement about the whole thing anyway. When the guards came for him, he allowed himself to be dragged out of his cell with amiable non-resistance. He even felt cheery enough to ask them their names. They didn't respond.

*

> Oh thank God you're back. I'm slowly descending into insanity. I have nothing to occupy my mind except the Gedaran Book of Rules and the epic tale of the heroic exploits of Gryfan and Tedestra. Possible reference to ZPMs exciting at first but grows less interesting with every iteration. It's okay for you. I hear you shouting and laughing out in the fresh air with all your new chain gang friends. This is the only human interaction I get except occasionally getting yelled at by Creepy Guard. Not really interested in negotiating terms, that guy, but still a better conversationalist than brick wall. Don't think he understands how much his charm brightens my day. Sometimes I consider messing up on purpose just to see shining face. Speaking of which, briefly saw you march past my cell. Highlight of my morning. How quickly do you grow a beard anyway? You look like a hobo.

Shouting and laughing, huh? He was half right. Talking was punished on the fields, too, but there had been some shouting when one of the sicklier prisoners had collapsed under a beating, yanking his immediate chain-mates down suddenly by their arms, and pinning some of them (not to name names or anything) at awkward angles under their shovels. John had thought for a moment he might meet his end drowning in the mud, until he had been pulled out by his cell-neighbor--a great brute of a prisoner who struck John as the strong silent type, even in a place where silence was enforced.

John had thanked him briefly for the help, gotten no particular response, begun to daydream that the guy was aloof because secretly brilliant, and mentally nicknamed him "Professor Rononface." He considered sharing this with Rodney but decided it would require too much explanation.

Still favoring his right hand, John took up his fake pen and wrote slowly, hoping it wouldn't show.

> What heroic exploits?

 

> Uh, mainly they steal things belonging to the gods. They enslaved the first alien. (Did you know it's like a holy imperative for these people to force outsiders to do their dirty work? Awesome fucking society.) Other than that they just wander manfully killing people and manfully weeping over each other's graves (don't ask) and manfully totally doing it (that's partially conjecture, but partially? So not. Parts were kind of hot, actually, the first time or four.)

John got the feeling of vague dread he got whenever Rodney talked openly about the guy side of his bisexuality. It wasn't often, thankfully--he was the only one who knew about it, as far as he knew. It had come out during a particularly intimate post-mission, post-medlab BS session, when Rodney had started telling him stories about this guy he'd sort of dated in Siberia--just going on and on about the guy's quirks (in and out of the bedroom) seemingly without thinking it was odd that he was, well, a guy.

John had told him in vague terms about his encounter with Teer. He hadn't mentioned Avrid.

He continued reading,

> Actually, the last thing I want to do is talk about these fucking books. Seriously, beginning to forget what friends, loved ones look like. You're the pretty one, right?

That was the other outcome of that night--they flirted, now, apparently. Like Rodney figured, what the hell, it's not like he can call me out on acting too gay. Or maybe he'd've felt guilty about playing the game with a guy who didn't know about his secret advantage. John felt kind of guilty playing back, but he figured it was harmless. Rodney didn't have enough straight cred to reasonably mind, if he ever found out; and it's not like John was leading him on. Rodney was too smart to put his heart on the line for a guy who, as far as he knew, was 100% Hetero "I Put the USA in USAF" Guy.

Besides, he was with Katie now, John was pretty sure.

Anyway, John could sympathize with the embargo on shop-talk. He painstakingly printed out,

> Sure if you like hobos.
> 
> Animal vegetable or mineral?

 

> Vegetable? What do I look like, a botanist? Yeah, it's vegetable, it's a thrice-blossoming peach orchid. I thought you would be interested. It's mineral, of course.

 

> ZPM?

 

> Damn you. Animal vegetable or mineral?

 

> Ha. I know you too well
> 
> mineral

 

> Is it a tank?

It was not a tank. John managed to keep up the game well into the night. Happily for his hand, he didn't have to write much more than "yes" or "no," while Rodney wrote increasingly complicated questions, refusing to let John go to sleep until he had figured out the answer. It was TARDIS, which had the desired effect of impressing him. No matter how many times John outed himself as a geek, Rodney never ceased to be surprised and delighted.

> I don't think we're going to top that. Goodnight Rodney.

 

> Goodnight, John.

*

The next morning as he was being led out John made a point of turning and meeting Rodney's eyes as he watched the procession for a glimpse of him. He'd planned to flash an encouraging smile but it turned genuine when he saw the inside of Rodney's cell. His desk was completely surrounded by hundreds of calculation-covered papers, fanning out around him like a dozen miniature lab whiteboards. Trust McKay to be working on a dozen projects at once.

*

That day John's group got to making little rocks out of big rocks because gravel was invaluable in some phase of the swamp-clearing process, and John swung his pick in a dumb, sleepy haze, almost not registering the lingering pain in his hands or the aches in his joints and muscles, as he tried to come up with some difficult-to-guess solutions for their next game. He thought of Jane Fonda as Barbarella (animal), the number 6971143 (uh, mineral?), the concept of hope (probably a vegetable). As he broke little rocks into littler rocks, he wondered what "underwater basket weaving" counted as.

As soon as he was thrown back onto his own stone floor he scrabbled for a piece of blankish paper.

> Hi honey I'm home. A V M?

 

> I don't have time for this now, Sheppard, I have enough problems in my life at the moment. Creepy guard is on my case about my efficiency (I expect him to start going on about TPS reports at any moment). "I was given to understand that you had clever hands and yet all this time at your work table last night and you have only produced four books? Perhaps if you were not so preoccupied with these drawings?" DRAWINGS. I tried to explain, starting with algebra, but he wasn't interested. So now I'm all hunched over the floor. Did you tell the creepy guard I have "clever hands"? The hell? Ugh, this guy across from us has plague or something. I hope you have enjoyed my company because you are unlikely to see me alive again. I am going to rot and die of pestilence and all that will be left is these idiotic notes, which they will ask to publish, upon discovering my brilliant unpublished papers back home, as "Final Thoughts of the Greatest Physicist the World Has Ever Known" and you will give them up and totally ruin my credibility. "Clever hands." What the hell.

 

> Jeez, Rodney. Darmok and Jelad not treating you right?
> 
> You guess then. I'll start you off. It is neither animal, vegetable, nor mineral.

 

> What is it then? Give me something to work with. On second thought, don't. Screw guessing games. Refuse to guess. Can't guess. Too cold. Also tired, hungry, lonely. Why do you have to keep me up all night? What's with all these stupid games? Why don't you send me something useful like a parka?

John chose to ignore Rodney's anti-20 Questions blasphemy.

> It's more like an act, I guess.

He paused, re-reading the rest of the note. If Rodney was really cold he was crazy, because it was actually fairly sauna-like in the cells that night, but whatever. John grinned as an idea occurred to him. He wrote,

> Okay, so. Picture Julie Newmar in the Catwoman outfit.
> 
> Now, Eartha Kitt Catwoman.
> 
> Now make them make out a little.

 

> Wow. I... I have no words. (I know, I know, for once, right?) Images, yes. Those I have. Seriously: wow. Where did that come from?

It was true that John was usually pretty reticent to talk about anything sexual, but he was running out of distract-McKay options. His usual arsenal of inappropriately lascivious looks was useless here. He wrote,

> You said you wanted to warm up. What else am I supposed to do from here?

Hm. Written out, the implication seemed a lot less plausibly deniable than it had in his head. He appended,

> It's not like I can lend you my varsity jacket.

 

> Yeah, right. You'd be a terrible high school boyfriend--you know, the football star who's always leaning on things and grinning smugly because he's so aware of how popular and good-looking he is? You'd be like "Get your own fucking jacket."

 

> Is it an illegal act?

 

> McKay I'm hurt. I thought you were a scientist.
> 
> It is now.

 

> What? I am a scientist.
> 
> Illegal everywhere? Atlantis? USA?

 

> No; not that I know of; certain parts.
> 
> Well for a scientist, you're not taking into account the counterevidence. You've worn my jacket.
> 
> Besides, I was a burnout in high school. Wore black, smoked behind the school.

 

> HA YOU WERE A GOTH.  
> If it were illegal in Pegasus, would you be sad?

 

> Yeah, I guess it would kind of crimp my style. I don't know that I'd be sad though. I'm no goth...

> You so were a goth. You wrote angsty poetry like this:  
> MY SOUL by John Sheppard   
> My soul   
> once soared   
> and glittered   
> in the sky   
> like an F16   
> but now   
> night   
> has fallen   
> upon   
> my F16   
> in the sky.
> 
> Is it sodomy?

 

> The hell??? No.  
> Here is the poem that you wrote:
> 
> MY SOUL by Rodney McKay   
> 010011010100111101001110   
> I don't understand girls!   
> 010010110100010101011001   
> When's lunch?   
> 0101010001001001   
> 0100110101000101

 

> I don't know what's sadder: that you wrote "MONKEYTIME" in binary or that I worked it out.
> 
> You can make fun of me for being nerdy all you want, but you're the one who referenced DARMOK AND JELAD AT TENAGRA. Jesus.
> 
> It's not something stupid like "loitering," is it?

 

> Actually? Yes.

 

> Whoa.
> 
> It's possible we both know each other too well for this game to work.

*

John had thought that he might, after a few days, grow accustomed to the work, get into a groove, treat it like a difficult but do-able work-out, but instead, it seemed like each day he was scraping from the bottom of his well of reserve energy. Pushing his body way past its limits. Wearing away his joints until his bone scraped together. Voiding his fucking warranty. Maybe if you're going to be in a prison camp you should seriously consider getting one of: (a) nutrition, (b) sleep. Well, enough was enough. As worth it as it generally was to have something else to dwell on--no. Tonight was the night. The Night of Sleep.

Some part of him knew that resolution was out the window the moment he stumbled back into his cell to find three notes already on the floor. He read them in what he figured was chronological order, judging from their relative positions.

> I know you're not back yet, but I need to consult with someone. Do you know of a GOOD way of testing the primality of integers? Rabin-Miller is probabilistic, right? Probabilistic is useless to me. Also, I don't remember it offhand. Fucking number theory proofs much harder without texts to consult.

 

> Never mind, I figured it out. Note to self: if you can't remember it, invent it from scratch.  
> I'm going to get home and find out just how trivial all this is. I'm probably figuring out shit Pythagoras knew from birth. My enormous intellect is useless here. It's actually really impressive how very, very useless it is.

John could only imagine how he felt. Being asked about math in the middle of all this--of being used like a machine for his brute strength and nothing else--it was like a mouthful of cool spring water. (He daydreamed for a moment about cool spring water. It was hot as hell, and he and the other prisoners got water enough to subsist, but it was lukewarm and kind of muddy-tasting--probably chock full of valuable nutrients, he'd cheerfully told Rodney, who complained about it one night. And infectious diseases, Rodney had returned.) He'd been saving the big guns, but he thought it was probably about time for a game of Prime/Not Prime. Except it looked from Rodney's question that he'd be at a distinct disadvantage. Heh, had Rodney been doing this research in preparation for P-Not-P? Or was he working on... what, encryption? Because John was so not doing trapdoor functions in his head.

He picked up the last note.

> Okay I changed my mind. Let's go. Let's get out of here now. I can't stand to be in this cell another minute. Considering not even waiting until you get back. Yeah, I see you looking at me, guard, and I don't care. I'll kick you in the face. Can I kick you in the face? You look armed. Come kick people in the face for me now, Sheppard, I need to get out of here. Forget what I said before was crazy this is totally unacceptable would even gladly hold conversation about Zelenka's pet newts now  
> HATE THIS FUCKING PLACE NEED TO LEAVE
> 
> God, I wish you were here.

Oh, sure, let's just escape, shall we? How about I get back to you on that when I figure out how to stand up, John didn't write. He wasn't sure what Rodney thought--that he wasn't working that hard, or that he was such a badass that he laughed in the face of backbreaking physical labor, ha! ha!--but it didn't seem to occur to him that this-all might be taking a toll on John's ability to carry out what Rodney called "daredevilry". It wasn't like John was in any rush to disillusion him, but still. (Somewhere some part of him asked, so, if not now, when? When exactly do you see things getting better for you here? Another part of him started singing the Star Spangled Banner really loudly.)

> Hey, Rodney, I'm here. Breathe, ok buddy? You're panicking. You were right the first time. Safer to wait for rescue unless things get really bad. You're still ok, right? Sure, you're fine. Buck up.

He knocked on the wall, and heard Rodney's voice, muffled yet distinctly relieved--something like "Oh, thank God." The next time the guard glanced away he heard Rodney's snapping his fingers, but he waited until the guard had walked off a little before he reached out his note, caught Rodney's fingertips, and squeezed. He felt Rodney squeeze back gratefully. He probably would have clung on had not John pulled away suddenly when the guard started to turn.

His soothing attempt hadn't done much good, because Rodney's next message was just as frantic.

> Oh God John I hate this fucking wall. Hate being in here alone - being watched but nobody to talk to, worst of both worlds. Notes not enough. I just want to be in the same room with you for five minutes. Is that so much to fucking ask?

  
Feeling that it would definitely be a good idea to veer the conversation in a distracting direction, John asked,

> What exactly were you thinking of doing with those five minutes?

He expected Rodney to give some innocent answer, in keeping with their usual dare-and-back-down style, but instead he got:

> I'm sure my clever hands would come up with something.

Never one to admit defeat, John wrote quickly without stopping to think about it,

> And when the rescue party busts in on the head of science giving the military commander a handjob, we can just say prison turned us gay!

Top that, John thought with satisfaction, trying to ignore the butterflies in his stomach when Rodney's hand slipped the message out of his.

The next response was of a totally different tone than Rodney's previous messages, and, if nothing else, John supposed he could take credit for getting the guy's mind off his troubles:

> So, I mean, that's it, right? We're going for it, this you and me, more than friends, thing? I know, I know, my timing is probably all wrong for asking, since I never seem to time these thing right, and you're not supposed to ask anyway, you're supposed to just KNOW, and yeah, I'm pretty sure, but I'd like to get things squared away in my own head, you know, for future reference, whenever we're in a position to actually do something about it. (See: your last message. Do you have a bet with yourself, seeing how many times you can give me goosebumps in one night?) By the way, you might not think it to look at me (well, YOU might, the way I've seen YOU look at me) but I'm actually really good at sex, I think you'll be pleased.

John's stomach, along with any and all insect life therein, performed a series of complicated acrobatics as he read through the message. When he was done he swallowed and felt like--whether he was going to throw up or implode or go supernova or he didn't know what--something untoward and uncontrollable was definitely about to happen to his body. He tipped forward on his knees and lay his dizzy head down on the floor for a little while.

Solidly connected to the floor, it was easier to think. Was Rodney serious? He couldn't be. And yet... the message didn't really read like a joke. At all. Shit. John had not signed on for this. Okay, admittedly, he'd been giving definite signals. But he'd assumed McKay understood. He hadn't expected... Shit. He sat up suddenly--bad idea--he put his head back down, slid the paper in front of his face, and turned it to the blank side.

> You got me good, McKay. I almost thought you were serious.

John could almost hear McKay pacing and fidgeting, waiting for the answer, and when he got it, he let out a very audible cry of dismay. John wondered if he was imagining the sound of rustling papers--it would have to be pretty loud freaking rustling for him to hear it, but then he had once witnessed Rodney so angry in the medlab he'd made the bedsheets slam. Presently a note, wrapped in a rock, sailed inches by his face. John allowed himself a moment to groan quietly to himself before unwrapping it.

> Oh FUCK no, John, you don't get to hide behind your macho military gay chicken cover anymore. This has gone way too far for that, and you know it and I know it. I'm asking a serious question here, the least you can do is give me a reasoned fucking answer. Are we doing this thing or not?
> 
> I mean: I don't see why not. I like you; you like me; I work too much to put time into a relationship; you work too much to put time into a relationship; I'm attracted to sexy spiky-haired action heroes of both sexes; your gayness cannot be overstated. Is this because of your military's fuck-stupid antediluvian enforced homophobia? Because you can trust me, you know. I can keep a secret when it matters. Not that I think anyone on Atlantis would care anyway.

What the hell. John immediately turned over the paper and wrote, firmly, bending the tip of his stick-pen beyond all usefulness,

> Serious answer's no McKay! Jesus no! Fuck no! No way in hell! Can I say it more clearly?

  
Somehow it felt wrong to insist that he was straight--he didn't know how McKay had figured it out, but he wasn't sure he could put up a convincing argument, and anyway, it wasn't like there weren't plenty of perfectly valid reasons the idea was absurd. He added,

> We're on the same team for god's sake.

After he passed off his note he leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes, and concentrating on that whole inhale-exhale thing.

God, what a mess.

He'd really only looked away for an instant, but when he glanced back down at the corner there was already a new note waving at him. McKay's turnaround time diminished considerably when he was all riled up and, as it turned out, not paying attention to whether or not the guard was looking. Before John could react McKay's hand was pinned to the floor by the butt of a spear and the guard's hand closed around the note.

"'Right, the other team. We are batting for it. Together,'" he read. "What's this supposed to be, code?"

"Sadly, no," John muttered, mostly to himself.

"Hey, hi, hello," John heard Rodney pipe up. He actually sounded kind of breathless, like he was thrilled even to be having this conversation. "Let me explain..."

"You aliens think you're getting away with something..."

"Listen, I think you'll enjoy this story," said Rodney.

"What seems to be the trouble?" rumbled a deep calm voice from behind the guard. Captain Tev melted out of the darkness. He took the note from his underling and examined it silently. Then he said, "Prisoner 52 has already been warned that he dishonors the sacred tools by using them for profane activities. His foolish drawings have been excused because he is a heathen and too stupid to understand."

"Hey!"

"But now we learn he has been exchanging coded messages with another prisoner. This is a serious offense and must be punished."

"No, wait, it was my fault, I made him do it. My responsibility," said John. "If you're going to punish someone, punish me."

"Well?" asked Tev, turning to Rodney's side of the wall, and looking amused.

Don't be a hero, McKay, thought John, and after a pause, he could make out Rodney murmuring vaguely, "Actually, neither of us would be..." until the underling guard, grinning horribly, ground his spear down into Rodney's trapped hand, making his victim yelp.

Tev stayed the guard's arm. "Who are we to interfere with an alliance of devotion?"

"Sir, they are filthy aliens! They cannot understand."

"Perhaps not. Let us test." Tev smiled unnervingly. "You have your wish, 51; what is your rank? Colonel 51. You will come with us. Bind him."

*

They dragged him back to that storeroom where he'd first bargained on Rodney's behalf, and two of Tev's burliest of burly helper monkeys chained him to the ceiling pipe or whatever it was. John looked around. Their guns were propped in a corner, one hopelessly in pieces. His old vest still lay in pieces on the ground, but Rodney's was intact--they must have gotten him out of it easier. The packs had been combed through with interest, and their contents lay in a heap, too far away to be useful to John at the moment. On top of a crate, he recognized the remains of the handheld, looking like it'd been beaten with a rock. Not that John didn't want to do that to it sometimes himself, but it seemed like an excessive use of a force on so delicate and harmless an object.

"You see we have had no luck with your equipment," said Tev, coming in behind his gorilla. "Perhaps you can help us."

"My pleasure. Just hand me that," said John. "I'll give you a demonstration."

"I think what I like best about you, 51, is your childlike exuberance. I will return when you are more subdued."

The problem with Rodney, though John as the switch fell in stinging welts across his back, was that he didn't think things through. Oh, sure, science, but (ow) even then. He loved a shiny new theory, and only bothered himself with the pesky details of implementation when he had to. In his head this relationship was an idealized dream, sunshine and standing shoulder to shoulder before the endless ocean, sharing knowing smiles and stolen kisses, brainstorming sessions fueled by coffee and sex (and, god, imagine punctuating the crescendo of ideas with an actual orgasm), coming back from a mission and--hot shower--and--HOLY CHRIST OW--God--good train of thought, though, bookmark that for later--

He began to compose a letter in his head: Dear Rodney--ow--maybe that was too affectionate. To: Rodney? Good morning Dr. McKay? No, dear--ow--dear Rodney was the way to go. Dear Rodney: Yeah, I know what you're thinking, and that would be great, but it doesn't work that way. It's not like we can just take our friendship as it is now and add the occasional low-pressure grope in the back of the jumper. That would be fine--great--ow--but you know whether we like it or not it's going to turn into a Relationship. (Hhhhh, Jesus.) I'm not going to want to get jealous or possessive or resentful or worried sick about you down in that wraith infested village so I blew up everyone hope that's okay (whatever you call that), but you can't control what you feel. I don't know how it is with you, but I can either sleep with someone I don't know and be fine, or I can sleep with my best friend and end up, if past experience is any indication, married. The thing with--ow--god-the thing with--the thing--

What was he thinking about? Oh, yeah. The thing with Dani. He hadn't really talked to Rodney about that, before. The marriage had ended badly enough; he couldn't imagine what would have happened if he had been trying to run dangerous missions with her: not while they were in their schmoopy poetic phase, and not while they were circling the drain.

This, he continued his mental letter, this is exactly why there are rules (GAH OW) about fraternizing with your teammates--because it's a bad fucking idea. Supposing everything's going great and you (oh God) you think I'm just the greatest. How objective do you think you're going to be about deciding to send me on dangerous missions? And what about when I have to order you around off-world? I can't guarantee I won't risk success of missions that depend on your expertise because I don't want to risk you. I want to tell you I wouldn't risk the many to protect the one, but I know I would, if it was one I (aaahhowww) one I cared about.

And then if one of us is captured, or in trouble, the other's just going to go apeshit. And we would have to damn well prepare for that to happen, because it would, even more than it does now. Relationships create exploitable weaknesses. Isn't that why Superman was such a fucking cocktease (cunt tease?) for Lois Lane? I mean, look at right now--(ow, speaking of which)--they think we're "devoted friends," or whatever, like the guys in the book, and so to punish you they took me. (PAIN.) And that's all fine and good in this situation, but what happens when someone wants to hurt me (more likely, you have to admit--I mean, unless we're counting disgruntled scientists)? Do you think Kolya wouldn't do anything to get his hands on--ow--someone--ow--someone I--ow--someone who means a lot to me?

And that's if things are going well. Supposing the relationship crashes and burn (considering it's us, it's really just a question of when). How good of a protector am I gonna be then? How objective is either one of us going to be about sending the other into danger if we're fantasizing about wrenching out his guts? (Speaking of which, make it stop? Somebody?)

I mean, it's not like we're all happy-go-lucky bestest-friends-forever now. (Ghhhhlgghhow.) We just don't care enough to get bent out of shape about the shitty stuff we do to each other all the time. But there's a difference between your friend pissing you off and--ow--your--ow--your lover pissing you off. I have enough I have to take care of without adding your feelings! (John mentally crossed off this last line because it was too mean.) Do you really think either of us is good enough at relationships to keep it up more than a few weeks? Days? Have you met us? We--ow--we do this--you get your way--all you have to look forward to is getting your heart broken--you know that, right? (Aauuugh, enough, enough.) If we don't make it to the stabbing each other with butter knives stage, it's only because one of us is killed first, and let's face it, all the stupid shit I do, that's gonna be me. I'm long overdue to be exploded or shish-kebabed or (for example) beaten to death with branches. Getting together with me means a good chance you'll be left burying a boyfriend. (Meanwhile, for me: sweet hellfire. (Please, please take me now.))

Man, Rodney, John concluded, you're really lucky you have me around to say "no," because you're really not looking out for yourself at all.

Then, because it was a mental letter, he mentally signed it: Love, John.

By now his lips were bleeding from where he bit them and there were tears streaming down his face and into his beard and he felt now would be as good time as any to revisit that Calgon-take-me-away shower scene. He was so profoundly dirty now, between the swamp stink and sweat and oozing wounds and all, that just the thought of a shower was sexy on its own. Now add Rodney--John had seen him in enough semi-naked states and clinging shirts and tight pants that he could imagine something probably more or less accurate, if, perhaps, idealized. His imaginary Rodney had smooth, soft skin, hot and wet in the shower mist. Hair slicked down, clinging to his forehead. Cock hard out in front of him, red and water-slicked; John can feel it press into his back as Rodney comes up behind him and--

Makes it stop.

John opened his eyes. Captain Tev was waving away his torture ogre.

"Done so soon?" John gritted. "I was just... getting into it."

"Perhaps you will enjoy this nearly as much." He nodded forward his current assistant, the guard who'd caught them upstairs, who drew out his knife and carved a series of quick gashes in John's cheek. Tev watched, contemplatively, and asked, "Does your friend like to look at your face?"

"He's more of an ass man," said John, and instantly regretted it, but the guard didn't pull out any red-hot pokers or anything. Instead he very suddenly punched John hard in the eye. Then in the jaw. Tev nodded, and the guard began to undo the chains.

"Understand," said Tev, "I do not discourage devotion. But unless it is tested, it is meaningless."

John tried to think of a witty retort (maybe something to do with English class) but none sprang to mind. He also failed at remaining upright; as soon as the chains around his wrists were undone, he collapsed against the guard's shoulder, bleeding all over his uniform. In this John took a little pleasure.

They hauled him back up to the cell block, making sure to pick the entrance that would pass them by Rodney's cell on their way back to John's. John hoped he would be asleep--wouldn't that just be so frustrating for these guys? Try to walk the beat-up best friend by the guy you really want to hurt, and he's dozing off angelically dreaming about rabbits or something? But it was not to be. Rodney was standing right up against the bars with the desired look of wide-eyed horror. John turned his face away hoping it had been too dark for Rodney to get a good look.

*

John refused to learn his lesson. He lay perfectly still with his raw back to the grate, lulling the current guard into a false sense of security, concealing the slow, careful movement of his hands as he wrote

> Cheer up, Rodney, it can't be that bad.

He considered adding some cute expression like "Let's not go to bed mad," but he didn't want to lay it on too thick and give Rodney false hope, so he crumpled the note around a convenient pebble, palmed it, and rolled in what he hoped was a sleepy way onto his stomach. In the dark he kept one eye trained on the guard, who had apparently been told to keep a close watch on them, until he finally, finally turned and paced restlessly down the hall. John quickly scampered up, tossed the note into Rodney's cell, and returned to rest, where his entire body screamed abuse at him for the sudden movement. He suspected the pain might make it difficult to fall asleep, but he was wrong.

*

Making gravel the next day (which was really only a few hours later) was so ridiculous that you kind of had to laugh. John usually had one or two swings of the pick in him before he got so bone-tired and achy he felt he had to stop right this second, but this time the feeling set in immediately. His back was stiff with dry blood and scabbing wounds. Every part of his body throbbed, which was kind of nice, since it was hard to focus on one pain too long. The dizzy, nauseous feeling that had set in the night before had never really gone away, and his muscles were so tired they were out of control, so he wobbled everywhere, never bringing the pick down where he meant to. He shivered, too, chilled by the damp fabric of his pants clinging to him, and the lack of a shirt. Blood loss, he theorized, must make you cold, because he was shivering even though he knew intellectually it was hot out, and, in fact, he felt hot, and he was sweating, only he was cold too. A minor concern, perhaps, in light of everything else, but it was puzzling, and it helped to have a mystery to think about.

The upside was that everyone kind of left him alone. He looked (and shambled) like a horror movie zombie; he had no control of his swings, and none of the prisoners wanted their faces lopped off; and the guards in charge that day seemed to realize he was doing the best he could and no amount of "encouragement" would stop him stumbling around like a drunk monkey.

Finally they brought him in and dumped him on his own blessed blood-covered floor. John made a careful survey of his surroundings during the next hour or so and finally concluded that Rodney had not replied to him. Ignoring him. Understandable. He'd blown the guy off.

There was one blank scrap of paper left, the back of one of the notes of frantic loneliness, and for awhile, John toyed with the idea of writing down the letter he'd drafted in his head in the torture chamber. He remembered it clearly (although the beatings themselves seemed faraway and dreamlike, which was probably a good thing) and he could probably fit in all the major points if he wrote small. He knew it would make Rodney respond. Probably even thoughtfully.

But he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Rodney, he knew, would have just done it without another thought. Rodney wrote as effortlessly as he spoke, which is to say, pretty damn effortlessly. Rodney could talk about his feelings and desires as casually as he discussed the weather or a number theory proof.

Admitting to himself he wasn't going to dignify a single one of his relationship thoughts by committing them to paper, John laid down his pen-stick and carefully tore the last scrap into sixths. Maybe if he could just get his attention.

> Rodney? Talk to me, buddy

 

> Rodddddneeeyyyyyy

 

> whoooooOOOOooo ghosts

 

> Are you there Rodney? It's me John. Will I ever get breasts like Laura Cadman's?

 

> pssst, smart kid, what's a dactyl?

Last one, so he had to make it count. Finally, feeling a little desperate, he forced himself to write sincerely,

> Are you mad at me? I'm sorry.  
> John

And he finally got a response:

> Oh my God, you fucking dumbass grunt, will you JUST SHUT UP ALREADY and help me help you keep from getting the shit kicked out of you again. Jesus.
> 
> P.S. Nothing to be sorry for.

*

John didn't reply, figuring it wouldn't do any good. Especially when he passed by the next day and Rodney didn't look up, didn't even try for that once-daily moment of face-to-face (if nonverbal) communication. Just kept his head down and worked on what was apparently the actual work he was supposed to be doing. His cell was bare, absolutely free of calculations and projects, and there was a neat stack of finished books in front of him.

John fell asleep immediately when he got back to his cell. When he woke up there were no notes waiting for him.

The next day was just the same except Rodney looked up. Only briefly, an almost involuntary glance at the passing chain gang. He didn't make eye contact, just gazed vaguely through the prisoners. Then, uninterested, he turned away.

*

The realization came upon John all at once while he was shivering and sweating out in the fields--not that he was killing himself, that was old news--but that he was killing Rodney.

It had happened so gradually that he hadn't noticed. He'd missed the line between overreacting and genuinely freaking out. And then at some point Rodney had let go of whatever it was he'd been clinging to--of his individuality, his Rodney McKay-ness. John could die tomorrow (chances were looking better every moment) and Rodney would live, one and on forever (because he was comfortable and they were feeding him), alone, copying over those damn books. It didn't matter anymore that he didn't care about what he was doing. He'd stopped hoping, stopped rebelling.

Stopped thinking.

The nausea that had set in the night Rodney made a pass at him (or rather, assumed one had been made at him) had never really subsisted, only been more or less urgently unpleasant at any given time, and now it suddenly doubled him over, and he vomited into the trench he was digging.

After that he felt strangely at peace. So this was what it was like on the bottom of the barrel. At least, he thought, it would all be uphill from here.

He was wrong about that, as it turned out, but in the moment, the thought comforted him, and helped him to understand what he had to do.

*

Still no message from Rodney, but he didn't expect one. He still had the paper on which Rodney had called him a dumbass grunt. He scratched it out, wary of causing insult, and on the back, wrote a short message in large block letters. The next time the guard looked away he knocked on the opposite wall from Rodney's and stuck out his hand. Nothing. It took a few more attempts, but then his Professor Rononface on the other side finally got the message and tentatively reached out a hand. John pressed the note into it and drew away quickly, trusting that the prof would be quick enough to follow suit. Apparently Professor Rononface lived up to his imagined reputation for intelligence, because no guards came.

John curled up and tried to sleep. It didn't work out. Surprising, considering how exhausted he was. One nice thing about being awake was that--and only because he was looking for it--John saw the note surreptitiously change hands across from him once or twice. So it had made it across the hall, somehow. He felt better knowing phase 1, at least, was working; but he still couldn't sleep. Like a kid on Christmas Eve. If, you know, the kid has the flu, and Christmas is a day of surpassing hardship and violence.

The note had been simple enough for everyone who could read to follow, and for anyone who couldn't to have explained to him, John hoped. It had read,

> RIOT AT DAWN  
> PASS IT ON

*

As dawn neared John began to wonder how this thing was going to work out. Whoever the guards picked to drag out first would be a distinct disadvantage--he'd be fighting alone against three guys. They'd probably subdue him completely (that is, kill him) --his only effect would be in tiring them out so that the others might succeed. He'd have to be stupid or a martyr. It would be interesting to see which cell they went to first; John hoped it would be in his line of sight.

As it turned out, it was. Because it was John's.

As key guy unlocked the grate, John found himself unequal to the task of standing up. This did not bode well.

The guards hauled him to his feet, and he let himself be dragged out and chained. Just like any other day. He could feel, or imagined he felt, the collective disappointed sigh of the prisoners.

Key Guy moved on to John's neighbor's grate. As the two guards approached him Professor Rononface met John's eyes.

"NOW!" shouted John, running up behind Key Guy and throwing chains around his neck. The professor didn't have to be told twice; he started throwing punches. As John choked the life out of Key Guy, Professor Rononface pinned Guard #1 to the ground. Guard #2 decided then that his time would be better spent running for reinforcements, and he escaped.

John let Key Guy's body slip to the ground, took his knife and his keys, and unlocked himself. "Nice work," he told Professor Rononface, who ignored him, taking up his victim's spear.

Five new guards burst in, Captain Tev at the lead. Professor Rononface stood tall, narrowed his eyes, threw his spear squarely into Tev's chest. Tev stumbled back, and the other guards shouted and ran to avenge him. Professor Rononface threw himself full-force into the dogpile, still intent on going for Tev. John took advantage of the distraction and ran down the corridor, unlocking all the doors, and sending allies Ronony Guy's way. One guard figured out what was going on and grabbed him; John, full of adrenaline by now, thrust his knife backward into his attacker's stomach, and elbowed him off, and kept going, impatiently shaking warm blood off his weapon and hand.

After he'd let out the final prisoner he looked back, wondering what Rodney was making of all of this, but he didn't turn to find out. He'd be safest locked in his cell. John unlocked the entrance grate and slipped out.

The labyrinth of guards' barracks was almost uninhabited; most everyone had joined the riot. John only met with one poor sap left to protect the treasures. A newbie, by the nervous way he carried his spear. Somehow, though, he drew first blood--fortunately missing John's vitals and piercing the skin outside his ribs. John slumped, pulling out the weapon with a sharp pain, and threw it back at its owner, missing completely, and sending it clattering into the corner. John pressed forward with his knife in one hand and his bloody side in the other, and he must have been distracted with his injury, because he was almost immediately disarmed and headlocked. The silly kid didn't take up the knife, only let it drop, but perhaps he was better at hand-to-hand anyway. John whipped his head back sharply, butting the guard in the face, crushing his nose, and knocking the wind out of him. He threw himself down, but the kid was ready for him, and rolled out of the way, and immediately when John's knees hit the ground, the guard turned him over and pinned him on his good side.

John struggled impotently, aware that he was becoming ridiculous. To be killed by a first-week-on-the-job kid on a backwater dark-ages planet in the middle of nowhere, after all he'd been through, seemed like a spectacularly silly way to go in the end. The guard disrupted his thoughts by crunching his arm back behind his bad side at an angle God never intended it to go. John let out a long cry of pain, genuine at first, and fell back, pretending to pass out. When the kid relaxed a little, he kicked upward, hard. It was a low blow but it got him what he needed, just one vulnerable moment. John reached for the sword and thrust it into the kid's chest. Blood stained the floor. John panted on the ground, rolled over, dry-heaved. He hadn't eaten in about thirty hours. Didn't seem like such a bad thing now.

He finally pulled himself to his feet and found the storeroom. Their stuff was still there; they must have lost interest in it, because it was no more destroyed than it had been when he'd been beaten. He strapped on his pistol and McKay's vest, shoveled as much survival gear and field rations as he could back into one of the packs. Added the remains of the handheld, just in case Rodney could come up with anything. Finally he took up the not-in-pieces P90. It felt good in his hands.

The corridor was empty except for the dead and dying. Professor Rononface lay with four spears in his chest by the garish carnage of Tev's remains. John stood by him briefly, looking down, aware that he was thinking nothing in particular, and that maybe that was inappropriate. He looked up, distracted by shouts from outside; the riot had moved out into the fields. That should buy him some time. It sounded like they were all fighting together in a tight knot, instead of spread out around the compound. If that were so, maybe he could smuggle Rodney out unnoticed if they went in the other direction and kept down.

Feeling stronger with every step, John strode to Rodney's door and unlatched it in a single, businesslike move. He wavered a moment when he saw Rodney's body crumpled in the corner.

"Rodney," said John, and his voice sounded unnaturally hoarse.

John heard the rustle of fabric, and then saw the body stir, and then exhaled. Rodney cautiously turned his head and peered up at John as though he fully expected to see a Wraith standing there in his place. A Wraith who was excellent at impersonations, apparently.

"Oh, thank God," Rodney sighed. "Did you know you have really ominous footsteps?"

John stepped in and leaned over him, offering out his arm. Trying to exude strength and courage along with it. "Come on," he said brusquely. "Let's get you out of here."

Rodney reached up and gripped his hand. Suddenly John went all hot and cold and overwhelmingly dizzy. He blinked, swayed. He could hear Rodney's voice as if from a very long way off. "Sheppard? ...Are you...?"

And then he was on the ground, or the ground had come up to meet him, one or the other, possibly both; and the last sensation he was aware of was the sound Rodney's voice, growing frantic--"Sheppard! Colonel! John!"

*

John slowly blinked awake into the familiar sterile whiteness of the Atlantis medlab. His limbs felt heavy and immobile against the cold sheets. Carson stood at the end of the bed, filling a large syringe with something green.

"Is he dead?" asked Elizabeth, striding into John's field of vision, and joining Carson at the counter. She glanced into John's eyes, and, for an instant, her brusque manner entirely melted, and she said, without seeming to move her lips, "Please don't be dead."

"No," said Carson, holding up the syringe. There was something wrong with his arm. "But he soon will be." His arm turned from Wraith back to human again.

Elizabeth approached the bed and leans over John, peering at him curiously. Then, abruptly, she lifted her hand and slapped him. When she opened her mouth she spoke with Rodney's voice: "Colonel! Wake up! Come on! We have to get out of here."

*

Being dead was nice. Restful.

For a moment he could see the armed warrior kneeling over his body, wearing an expression of tender yet manly grief. As the image faded into darkness again, he felt a twinge of guilt at leaving behind his comrade to soldier on without him.

He ought to have at least given him something to remember him by. He pictured himself reaching for his friend's face, pressing their mouths together.

Kissing four times in rapid succession, without breaking contact, digging a gloved hand into the other Catwoman's hair, just beneath the ears.

Then his eyes fluttered open, and John found himself staring at the dark lids of Rodney's closed eyes.

Rodney drew back, smiled crookedly, and hoisted John's gun. "Good. Ah... Good. Um. Shall we go?"

*

John didn't exactly remember why they were running with their arms around each other--Rodney had another arrow in his ass, maybe--but he knew it was very important that they make it there before they were caught. His eyes were playing tricks on him; he saw a flash of movement, white dreads, Wraith armor, around every tree. The Stargate kept slipping back further and further. Gravity was messed up on this planet, and he felt heavier and heavier with each step. "Come on, come on," said Rodney, impatient as usual.

"What about the others?" asked John.

"What others?"

"I am here, John," came a calm female voice from behind him. John looked back and there they were, the rest of his team--Teyla, and Mitch, and Professor Rononface.

He was distracted by a flash of light in the corner of his eye, and the sound of twigs breaking, footsteps--someone coming. Several someones. "Stay back," he warned, stepping back, pressing his shoulder to Rodney's.

"What?" asked Rodney in his ear.

"I..." John turned, and Rodney was there behind him, but nobody else. "Where are the others?"

"What others?"

"Looking for this?"

John snapped his head forward again, and there was Kolya, standing in front of Ford's and Ronon's slain bodies, and holding Dani roughly by her hair, gun to her throat.

"Let her go," said John.

Kolya clicked a button, a dare in his eye, and the gun powered up with a steady whirr.

"Let her go, you bastard!" John yelled, as Kolya squeezed the trigger, and Dani let out a cry which was suddenly cut short. John tried to lunge but was grabbed from behind.

"Whoa. Let who go? Who's a bastard?"

"They killed her." He looked around, confused. No Kolya, no Dani, no bodies--just trees and mud and Rodney, struggling to maintain his grip around John's chest without dropping his gun. John muttered, "Nothing. Never mind. Let's just go."

"Okay, yes, yes, this is good. Stay with me, John, keep talking. What's going on in your head?"

Even though he'd seen it written, it still sounded unreal in person, hearing Rodney say "John."

"They kill everyone," John explained as they pressed forward, "but you I save."

"Well, that's something, anyway," said Rodney brightly, shifting his backpack.

A couple of bullies, also skipping class, passed by, clearly sizing up Rodney, the oblivious dreamy geek, for later pummeling. John glared at them until they passed. When they were alone in the hall, John told Rodney, "I protect you more. I always protect you more."

"Well, yeah, of course. I'm the most important member of the team!"

John shot him a squint of disbelief which only partially had to do with the tree branches waving out of open lockers behind him, vines writhing snake-like out of the vents.

Rodney didn't seem to notice any of it, and continued chattering, "Most deserving, anyway. Let's just look at who we have on our team, shall we? Teyla: queen of the Amazons. Ronon: Conan the Barbarian. You: badass, sunglass-wearing, magical commando. Me: physicist. Now with hand-wringing action!"

"You pack," John pointed out, eyes drawn to his own thigh holster. Somehow it managed to look pretty dorky on Rodney, but also strangely hot.

Rodney tugged at it nervously. "Yeah, and I'm a suck shot. Let's face it, you'd be a shitty team leader if you didn't give me extra protection."

"That's not why. I..." John swayed on his feet, feeling queasy. "I feel," he began, stepping unsteadily forward with a squelch. He gazed down dizzily. Was there supposed to be ankle-deep mud in the hallway? John reached out his hand to steady himself against a locker, but found nothing, and stumbled. Rodney grabbed him by the arm. He felt solid enough.

"You all right?"

"Uh..." John made a concentrated effort at thought.

"You know what, forget I asked."

John reviewed his hazy memories of the day's events. He knew had watched his team die while he was protecting Rodney, and he was pretty sure he had also killed three men with his bare hands so that Rodney wouldn't be bored. All concerns about losing his objectivity suddenly seemed distinctly absurd. He said, earnestly, "I'm already too far gone," and it felt good to give the thought voice, even though Rodney, judging by his look, didn't have a clue what he meant. He felt a cool drop on his lip, and turned his head to the sky, and smiled. "Hey, it's raining."

"What?" Rodney glanced up almost involuntarily, then rolled his eyes. "It's like trying to talk to a squirrel on--" and John took advantage of the infinitesimal pause while he tried to decide what exactly the squirrel was on to kiss him. He tasted like the planet, rainy and earthy and primitive, but he also tasted like himself, like the way he smelled. Familiar.

John didn't recall specifically formulating a plan in which removing Rodney's pants was a step, but the next thing he knew Rodney had caught his wrists and was removing his hands from where they'd been frantically fiddling with the belt. "Uh, yeah. About that."

"I want it," murmured John against his cheek. "We may as well."

"As romantic as that is--and quite aside from the fact that we're currently on the run from evil aliens in the functional equivalent of the Fire Swamp--"

"I think we could live here quite comfortably--"

"Yes, yes, I'm glad your horrible disease hasn't diminished the part of your brain responsible for Princess Bride quotes. Fire Swamp notwithstanding, there's only so much advantage I'm willing to take of my delirious friends. I'm pretty sure malaria doesn't count as a solid foundation for a relationship. Besides, this is just about the least sexy situation I've ever been in." Off John's squint, he added hurriedly, "It's not you! Okay, well, it is you, but it's also me. We're disgusting. We haven't brushed our teeth in, by my count, over a week. You are, as aforementioned, disease-ridden. We're both covered in swamp guck, you're covered in blood, your face is all thin and pale except for the places where it's swollen up with bruises..."

"Were you going somewhere with this?" John asked irritably.

"...You smell like a yak... Your hair is flat..."

"You know, you didn't have to kiss me," John pointed out, annoyed.

"I did, actually; I mean, it's you." In a slightly teasing voice he added, "I'm too far gone." And he gently kissed John's mouth, and cupped the back of his head and held it steady against his own. John let himself relax against him, closing his eyes, and thinking about sunshine and open ocean.

Something shook in his jumbled mind, dislodging a new image: the warrior bent over the grave. John looked away, at the mud, at anything but him, and swallowed.

"Hey, are you okay? You look kind of... John?"

John lifted his eyes to meet Rodney's. They were wide and blue and full of concern. Overcome, John declared, softly and intensely, "I'd do anything not to break your heart."

Rodney blinked. "Uh... okay."

A dozen other things occurred to John to say, but he was distracted by flash of light in his peripheral vision. He tensed, listening. Noises of tramping through the mud--someone, not far away. Several someones.

Rodney was staring at him quizzically. John asked, suddenly embarrassed, "Did you hear that?"

But Rodney surprised him with a nod. "What do we do?"

John frowned. "Let's..." he began in a whisper, pulling Rodney back toward the cover of the trees. Before he could finish his thought, a female voice rang out through the darkness: "Colonel Sheppard? Dr. McKay?"

"Teyla!" cried Rodney, breaking into a broad grin. "Oh thank God. Teyla!" Rodney stepped forward, fumbling at the light on the gun, and John slumped back against a tree, breathing out a long sigh.

"Teyla! Over here!"

"Rodney!"

"Oh God... Hurry, Sheppard's..."

*

To John's continuing surprise, Teyla was still there the next time he emerged into consciousness, and the next. And then they were on a jumper and Carson was there, saying "This will make you feel better" and giving him a shot of something, but John didn't really mind this time.

"You're completely human," he noted with satisfaction.

"So I am," Carson agreed readily, and gave him a gentle touch on the arm. "You've been hallucinating, lad. Your head will clear in a bit."

"You're not really dead," he told Teyla. "I'm glad."

She smiled mildly. "As am I."

"Hey, where's--hey," said John, as Rodney came into view. He frowned. "Did you--"

"Save your life? Yes, yes, that was real," Rodney interrupted impatiently. "You can thank me later." He busily crossed the cabin, apparently with every intention of going to bother whoever was flying at the moment, then suddenly paused by the doorway. "Uh. Not that you have to. Thank me. Or anything. You would have done the same thing for me. And have. The saving, I mean. I... Get well soon."

"Not much of a bedside manner, that one," Carson remarked when he was gone.

"There are a lot of things," groaned John, as the fog over his brain slowly receded, "that I hope weren't real."

*

> To: Dr Rodney McKay   
> From: Col John Sheppard   
> 04:13:32  
> I don't know if you're giving me space or if you don't want to be around me anymore, but we better sort this out because the next off world mission is coming up quick. I know it's at least as much my fault. I should have talked to you in person, but I never know what to say. I probably won't even send this. I remember everything that happened, I think. I guess I pretty well messed up what we had. I don't know if we were ever really friends or if it was always about something else from the beginning, but if you were faking, you sure got me good, cause I actually miss it, you know, hanging out, even if it wasn't for real. I guess I'm asking if you have it in you to act friendly again, even if I've turned you off the whole relationship thing.

 

> To: Col. John Sheppard   
> From: Dr Rodney McKay   
> 04:13:49  
> tl;dr

 

> To: Col. John Sheppard   
> From: Dr Rodney McKay   
> 04:16:03  
> Oh god, oh god, I'm so sorry, I didn't read and it was a good joke and I didn't think and what the hell. Where are you? In your quarters--I hope to god you're in bed and not reading your email. Must fix now bye
> 
> ps. As always, you could stand to be more discreet in your written communication--vagueness is not really the same thing as encryption. So you should know when I wipe these messages it's not just for self-serving revisionist history purposes and you can thank me when I get there


End file.
